


the air i breathe

by ceteiq



Series: "and a place to rest my head" [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Brothels, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Original Child Characters, Taverns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceteiq/pseuds/ceteiq
Summary: Jaskier is an omega forced to prostitute himself at an inn, and he assumes that the alpha— thewitcher— who's bought him for the night will be just as cruel and sadistic as every other customer, if not more so.Spoiler alert: He isn't. He isn't anything like the others at all.Or, the beginning of my fic "and a place to rest my head," but from Jaskier's point of view.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: "and a place to rest my head" [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719994
Comments: 100
Kudos: 738





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AzureWaves (Azure_Waves)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azure_Waves/gifts), [StrangestAeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangestAeon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [and a place to rest my head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097559) by [ceteiq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceteiq/pseuds/ceteiq). 



> a while ago i asked for prompts on tumblr related to my fic "[ **and a place to rest my head**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097559/chapters/55259602)" and this is for the prompt: "not from the prompt list, but I would love to see the initial meeting + escape from the inn from jaskier’s pov!!" thank you to the anon who requested it! and also thank you to those who’ve requested something along these lines in the comments of the main fic; i’ve dedicated this to you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to [starlitfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitfics/pseuds/starlitfics) for beta-reading this!
> 
> warnings: a/b/o, physical abuse, forced prostitution, implied past rape and resulting injuries, and references to non-con touching and kissing and people being generally gross toward jaskier

It's raining, and the tiny, dingy common room of Szymon's inn is busier than usual, full of shady characters looking for a drink and an evening out of the rain.

Plenty of them have shown interest in Jaskier, but Jaskier's already been reserved for the night by a sinewy alpha who's currently passed out drunk at a table near the bar. Jaskier isn't looking forward to him waking up.

He pushes the thought from his mind and goes back to cleaning tables. Not that the tables at Szymon's ever truly get _clean_ — but, well, the closer they come to something approaching cleanliness, the less likely it is that Jaskier will get beaten for neglecting his duties, so he tries his best.

He's scrubbing at a particularly stubborn sticky patch when suddenly Szymon sidles up beside him.

"Dandelion," he growls, his face so close that Jaskier can smell his rancid breath. "The alpha in the corner. You visited him yet?" He jerks his head toward the darkest corner of the room, and Jaskier glances over. Sure enough, there's a man sitting there. He must have come in quite recently.

"Not yet, sir," says Jaskier.

"Well, get on it," Szymon tells him. "See if there's anything you can do for him. I don't want him displeased with the service here, you understand?"

Jaskier nods. Offer him a refill, offer him a meal, offer him a blowjob. He understands.

"Good," says Szymon, slapping Jaskier's ass. Jaskier winces in pain, and Szymon laughs jovially, then turns and waddles back to the bar.

Jaskier, for his part, sighs and does as he's told. It hurts to walk, but he makes his way over toward the alpha in the corner, ignoring the way his asshole smarts at the movement. 

Truth be told, he's somewhat intrigued at the way the alpha's just sitting there brooding. Because alphas at Szymon's inn don't just sit around and _brood_.

No, they catcall Jaskier and snap their fingers at him and stick their hands down his pants. They kiss him drunkenly and call him names and ask for handjobs under the tables.

But not this alpha, apparently. 

He's noticed Jaskier now, and he's watching his approach, but there's nothing hungry or lascivious about the way he's staring. His gaze is even, perhaps curious. His eyes glint golden in the dim light of the inn.

Jaskier gives him a little wave, but he doesn't return the gesture. Doesn't even blink. And now Jaskier is _really_ intrigued.

He turns it up a notch: smiles, bats his eyelashes, twirls his dishrag. "Hello, good sir," he says, as flirtatiously as he can. He wipes the alpha's table clean with a few strokes of the cloth, still smiling.

The alpha doesn't speak. He doesn't smell of arousal, Jaskier can't help but notice. In fact, he doesn't even smell much like an _alpha_ — his scent is heavy, sure, but difficult to define, nothing like most alphas' rotting, putrid stenches.

No, this alpha's scent is something like... adventure, perhaps. Horses. Campfires. A hint of onion. 

It's the first time Jaskier can remember an alpha smelling halfway tolerable.

He slings the dishrag over his shoulder, takes a step closer, and gives the man a once-over. He's large, muscular— sort of rugged-looking. He's also drenched, his pale hair dripping around his face.

 _"You_ are soaking wet," Jaskier tells him coquettishly, leaning forward on the table. "Just came in from the rain, I imagine? You know, sitting here brooding in the corner isn't gonna do much to warm you up." He pauses briefly, but the alpha says nothing. "How about I get you something to eat?" Jaskier tries. "We've got chicken, pies, stew—"

"No," grunts the alpha, cutting him off.

"Maybe a refill on that drink, then?" asks Jaskier.

"You're an omega," the alpha says bluntly.

Jaskier nods, somewhat perplexed. He's not one for conversation, is he, this alpha? But Jaskier has made do with less. "I am indeed," he says. "And you're an alpha, with... Wait. Wait, I know who you are," Jaskier breathes. And suddenly it makes sense, why Szymon had been so concerned with some random alpha's opinion of the service here. Because he _isn't_ just some random alpha. "White hair, big old loner, two very, very scary-looking swords—" Jaskier lists off. "You're the _witcher_. Geralt of Rivia." The Butcher of Blaviken, he doesn't say. He's not sure how well that would go over. 

Jaskier should be scared, he's fairly certain. Witchers are supposed to be scary. And— well, his _swords_ are scary, sure. But the man himself... isn't, somehow.

The witcher neither confirms nor denies his identity. "You're hurt," is what he says instead.

And at that, Jaskier blinks, because what the fuck? "Excuse me?" he asks, taking a step backward. It's true, of course; Jaskier _is_ hurt. But nowhere the witcher can see, right? He does a quick mental inventory, and yes, his bruises are covered. His asshole is definitely covered. He's not gushing blood from anywhere.

"You're hurt," the witcher repeats. "I can smell it."

He can _smell_ it? Fuck. This is... rather disconcerting, to be honest. Jaskier is good at dealing with drunk, handsy alphas who paw and cuss at him. He's not good at dealing with alphas who are witchers and who look him dead in the eye and tell him that he's _hurt_.

Unmoored, Jaskier decides to do what he does best: laugh and act like nothing is wrong. "I think you've maybe had a _teensy_ -weensy bit too much to drink," he says, with an easy smile. "I'm perfectly fine, I assure you."

"Hmm," says the witcher.

"I'm better than fine, actually," Jaskier continues stupidly. "Never been, uh, finer. Now, are you _quite_ sure you wouldn't like anything to eat?"

"I'm sure," the witcher says. He's still looking at Jaskier, just looking, not leering or glaring or anything else Jaskier's come to expect from alphas. And Jaskier has the uncomfortable impression that he _sees_ him, too, _really_ sees him— not as a charming omega whore, but as a person. A person who's injured and frightened and— fuck. He has to get out of here.

So he plasters a grin on his face and says, "Well then." He pats the witcher's table in what he hopes is a non-offensive parting gesture, and works to keep his voice level and cheerful. "I'd love to stay and converse, I really would, but the rest of these tables won't wipe _themselves_ , will they, so... I'll leave you to it, yeah?" He smiles again. "Enjoy your evening."

Then he walks away, as gingerly as he can, being careful not to limp. 

And when a beta grabs his arm as he passes and pulls him onto his lap, it's almost a relief.

***

It isn't long before Jaskier hears Szymon ringing his little fucking bell from across the inn, which means he requires Jaskier's presence, for something unpleasant, no doubt.

Jaskier extricates himself from the arms of the beta and makes a few hasty apologies before hurrying off toward the bar.

When he arrives, he finds Szymon standing beside none other than the witcher. Fuck, thinks Jaskier. This can't be good.

"Yes, sir?" he asks, dreading the response.

"Dandelion, take this gentleman up to your room," says Szymon brusquely. "He has you till dawn."

And Jaskier's heart sinks. For a moment he wants to protest, wants to say no, not him, not the witcher, he'd been _different_. But of course he hadn't been different. None of them are different; they're all the same; this one had just been better at hiding it. Jaskier glances briefly— accusatorially— up at the witcher. The witcher just gazes down at him, impassive, and Jaskier looks away. "Yes, sir," he agrees.

"And you do whatever he says, you understand? I don't need a fucking _witcher_ on my bad side," sneers Szymon.

Jaskier nods. "Yes, sir," he says again. And then, to the witcher, "This way," he offers, taking a step toward the hallway that leads to the staircase.

The witcher turns to follow.

"Witcher," Jaskier hears Szymon say, "leave him in one piece, will you? He really is quite the little moneymaker, as I said."

The witcher nods at that, and Jaskier grits his teeth, fighting back tears. Fuck. He'd been so fucking _stupid_ , to think that the witcher had— had _seen_ him, pitied him, maybe even understood him to some extent. And sure, that had been unnerving, but Melitele's tits, to find out that the whole time he'd just been waiting to turn around and pay to fuck him… And if he'd outbid that other alpha who'd already had Jaskier reserved, he must have offered Szymon a really ungodly amount of money. Which, fuck. The ones who pay the most are always the worst.

"Come on," the witcher says quietly, coming up behind Jaskier.

Jaskier flinches, turns, and meets the witcher's eye. His expression is impossible to read. Jaskier hates it. But he plays his part, like the good little whore he is: he gives the witcher a smile, takes the man's large, rough hand in his own, and starts to lead him down the hallway.

The witcher says nothing, just follows along wordlessly, but Jaskier can sense that he's angry.

And— well, it takes a lot to scare Jaskier beyond the rather high baseline level of fear that's become his normal state of existence. 

But right now, Jaskier is scared.

Right now, Jaskier is fucking terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! :) more to come soon! let me know your thoughts so far! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [starlitfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitfics/pseuds/starlitfics) for beta-reading this!
> 
> warnings: semi-sexual content and kissing, plus referenced past rape and abuse

As they walk up the rickety stairs, Jaskier wonders if the witcher can smell his fear. Wonders if he's getting off on it. He probably is, Jaskier thinks. He probably fucking loves the idea of scaring a pathetic omega whore with his strength and his glare and his overall frightening witchery presence.

Jaskier grits his teeth at the thought, and lets go of the witcher's stupid callused hand. The witcher says nothing, just continues to trudge along behind Jaskier. His footfalls are heavy, solid, and simply serve to remind Jaskier that this man could easily split him open, beat him to a pulp, and hells, probably wring Jaskier's neck with one hand if he wanted to.

They reach the top of the staircase, and Jaskier glances back ever-so-briefly, but it's too dark to read the witcher's expression. "This way," he mutters, turning a corner. 

The witcher follows, and soon they're at the door to Jaskier's room. Jaskier pushes it open— it doesn't lock— and motions for the witcher to enter first. Manners, and all that.

The witcher steps inside and seems to be surveying the dismal, candlelit surroundings very intently. Well, at least he doesn't look under the bed, thank the gods. Jaskier closes the door behind them and pulls off his shirt.

"So, where would you like me?" he asks, removing his breeches. No use wasting time, he figures.

Immediately, the witcher turns around to face him, looks him up and down, and scowls. Like he isn't pleased with what he sees. Which isn't exactly a surprise— Jaskier knows his body is too thin for most people's liking, and covered with evidence of past customers' beatings— but he still feels a familiar prick of shame. He resists the urge to fold his arms over his bruised, protruding ribs.

Instead, he steps forward. "Sir?" he says softly. "Witcher?" He's pretty sure he's good enough with his fingers and mouth to make the man forget about the bruises. He places a hand on the witcher's cock, and—

He's soft.

Fuck. _Fuck_. What if he's impotent, and blames it on Jaskier? Or what if he's such a sadist that he can't cum unless he's carving someone up with a sword or something? Jaskier feels slightly nauseous at the thought.

But: "You're not hard," is all he says, forcing a smile. "That won't do! Here, let me just—" 

And he gets down on his knees to unbutton the witcher's trousers.

"No," says the witcher, very sternly, pushing away Jaskier's fumbling fingers.

"No what?" asks Jaskier. He lifts his eyes trepidatiously.

The witcher says, "No, that's not what I want with you."

"Oh," says Jaskier, standing up. He nods, and flashes the witcher a grin, even though he kind of wants to cry. The ones with no interest in foreplay are always the roughest. "No appetizers then? Straight for the main course?" he says, as cheerfully as he can manage. He sits down on the bed, scoots back against the lone pillow, and, with his knees bent, he grabs his thighs and spreads his ass. "Your wish is my command, dear witcher," he smiles.

But the witcher breathes in deeply, seemingly furious, and says, "Boy. I have no intention of fucking you."

Jaskier's forced smile fades, and he can't help but glance at the two swords slung on the witcher's back. Shit, he thinks. Shit, shit, shit. He's going to die tonight, and Rian's going to be left alone, and—

"I— I'm sorry, maybe there's been a misunderstanding?" he whispers desperately. "I'm— I'm just a whore; that's what you paid Szymon for, not— shit. _Shit_." He can feel tears stinging his eyes. "Please don't kill me. Please, I thought you killed monsters; I'm not a monster, I'm just a whore—" _And I have a son_ , he's about to say. _He's only four, he needs me, please_ , but the witcher cuts him off before he can get that far.

"I'm not going to kill you," he says flatly. It sounds... it sounds like he means it.

"Oh," says Jaskier. But he doesn't move, doesn't let go of his thighs or straighten his back, doesn't take his eyes off the witcher. His heart is pounding in his chest.

"I just want to— to talk," the witcher goes on. He re-buttons his trousers and, to Jaskier's great relief, takes the swords off his back and drops them to the floor. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

He wants to talk? Well... talking is certainly better than killing. Jaskier is very good at talking. Maybe, he thinks hopefully— maybe the witcher _isn't_ a sadist. Maybe he's merely one of those rare customers who isn't interested in fucking, but just wants to talk or touch or cuddle or some shit.

Jaskier sits up slightly, crossing his legs. "Talk?" he prompts. "About what?"

"About you," says the witcher. He sighs, and meets Jaskier's eye. "Your name is Dandelion?"

Jaskier hesitates, wondering whether to lie, but eventually decides on the truth. "My name is Julian," he says. "But no one calls me that."

"What do they call you?" asks the witcher.

"These days?" Jaskier laughs. "Let's see... 'whore,' mostly. And 'slut.' And sometimes variations on the theme— 'cockwhore,' 'cumslut,' 'cockslut'—"

Then the witcher growls, actually growls, and Jaskier shuts his mouth, terrified. "Jaskier," he admits, too afraid to make something up. He stares down at his legs. The witcher is going to punish him for being a smartass, he just knows it.

But all the witcher does is repeat the name, sounding intrigued.

And before he can help himself, Jaskier launches into an explanation. "Yeah, it's— it's a bit of a pseudonym I've picked out for myself, I guess," he blurts out. "You know, for someday when I'm a fabulously rich and famous bard, traveling the world, performing in royal courts..." Then he breaks off, suddenly aware of how stupid he must sound. He's just a whore, after all. He'll doubtless be a whore for the rest of his life. He gives a small, embarrassed shrug and covers his exposed cock with his hands, waiting to be told off for such idiotic optimism.

The witcher just grunts out, "Hmm."

A few moments pass. Then Jaskier decides it's time to get to work. He slides across the bed so he's sitting by the witcher, their legs side by side, the witcher's wide and brawny thighs beside Jaskier's skinny bruised ones.

"I hope I didn't offend you," Jaskier purrs, "when I asked if you were going to kill me. I mean, I was _pretty_ sure that the 'Butcher of Blaviken' stuff was an exaggeration, but you know, I've never met a witcher before, and one _does_ hear stories." He clears his throat, and turns his face to look straight into the witcher's golden eyes. "You're not like the stories though, are you?" he asks quietly, flirtatiously.

And then he leans in, cups the witcher's cheek, and kisses him, first chastely, then with tongue. When he settles a hand on the man's clothed cock, the witcher jerks away, but Jaskier just leans in and keeps kissing, even harder than before. He bites, sucks, moans, and finally, _finally_ , the witcher starts getting hard. 

Jaskier squeezes at his cock encouragingly. "There," he whispers, their lips still touching. "That's much better, isn't it? Now we'll just slip these trousers off, and—"

" _Stop_ ," snarls the witcher.

Jaskier flinches back and lets go of the man's trousers.

"I told you," says the witcher gruffly, "I'm not here to fuck you."

Jaskier stares at him, his heart beating painfully fast again, his stomach churning with terror. This is not going well. Not at all.

"I don't fuck people who don't want it," the witcher continues. "And you obviously don't want it."

Shit. _Shit_. The last thing he needs is the witcher to tell Szymon that Jaskier hadn't _wanted_ it, Melitele's fucking tits.

So Jaskier blinks, like he's confused, then smiles warmly. "Now, now, dear witcher," he says, as though this is all a big misunderstanding. "Don't be silly, of course I _want_ it. I want to please you. That's what I'm _here_ for." He reaches to cup the witcher's cheek in his hand again, but the man grabs hold of his wrist.

Jaskier flinches again, only to realize it doesn't actually hurt. The witcher's grip is very gentle.

"Hmm," the witcher says, letting go.

Jaskier opens his eyes.

The witcher is just sitting there. He still hasn't revealed what he wants, and if Jaskier doesn't find out soon, the man is bound to start getting annoyed. And then he'll tell Szymon, and—

"Witcher," says Jaskier, scooting a smidge closer and touching the man's inner thigh. "My _dearest_ witcher. Please. I really, _really_ must insist that you let me pleasure you." He bats his eyelashes, smiles shyly, bites his lower lip. "Alright?" he adds. "I absolutely refuse to let you leave here unsatisfied."

The witcher frowns. "What would he do to you, if you did?" he asks.

"I'm sorry?"

"The man. The innkeeper," grunts the witcher. "What would he do if I complained about your service?"

"Uh." _He'd punch me. Kick me. Fuck me. Starve me. Starve my son._ "Well, Szymon prides himself on happy customers," Jaskier says evasively, shrugging and looking away.

"So he'd beat you."

"If I deserved it," says Jaskier, still not meeting the witcher's eye.

"Jaskier."

Jaskier glances over.

"You don't deserve that," says the witcher. "Ever. You don't deserve any of this."

"Any of what?" asks Jaskier. This conversation is not going the way he'd expected. He's never... he's never had a customer who showed concern about the idea of him getting beaten. Or if they did, it was only because they were angry he was already bruised, because they wanted a pristine canvas to mark up themselves.

" _This_!" the witcher exclaims, sounding furious.

Jaskier is somewhat taken aback. It's hard to believe someone would care that much about Jaskier being hurt, but if it's going to keep the witcher from enjoying himself... "If you mean my, er, bruises, they look a lot worse than they are," Jaskier says. "I bruise easily. Very delicate skin. It's quite a nuisance, actually—"

"Jaskier," says the witcher, cutting him off.

And Jaskier gives up. He feels like a failure. He can't figure out what the witcher wants, but apparently it's not Jaskier. He bends his knees and hugs them to his chest. "What?" he asks weakly, his heart pounding, his breathing shallow.

"Look at me," says the witcher.

So Jaskier looks at him.

"I'm going to get you out of here," the witcher says. "Take you with me. Somewhere safe." His voice is gentle. Kind. Sincere.

Jaskier stares at him, uncomprehending, for a few long moments. And then, slowly, it dawns on him that the witcher wants to... _help_ him? That when he'd said Jaskier didn't deserve this, he'd meant... this life? That when he'd insisted he didn't want to fuck him... there hadn't been any dark implications?

And suddenly, unable to stop himself, Jaskier is crying. Helplessly, he grabs the witcher's shirt, buries his face in his shoulder, and sobs, and sobs, and sobs.

No one's ever wanted to help him before. Sure, there have been alphas who've offered to take him away and keep him as their personal sex slave, but no one's ever said they wanted to keep him safe. No one's ever even spoken to him in a moderately kind tone of voice, not since he started working here four years ago.

No one except the witcher. The witcher had spoken to him gently. The witcher had said he's going to take him away, take him with him, take him somewhere safe. And he'd _meant_ it, Jaskier could tell.

He won't actually want him as a traveling companion, of course, not once he learns about Rian. But just the suggestion— fuck. Maybe he'll still help Jaskier leave. Maybe he'll give him some money, enough to rent a room at a decent inn for a few days. Maybe he'll put in a good word with someone, help Jaskier get a job cleaning dishes or mucking out stables or something. _Fuck_. Jaskier can't stop crying.

The witcher touches his back. "Are you... alright?" he asks.

Jaskier doesn't answer, just continues to sob into the witcher's muscular shoulder, breathing in the scent of onion and horses, campfire and heroics.

And the witcher pulls him a bit closer, keeping his sturdy hand on Jaskier's back, and allows him to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! one more chapter left: the reveal of rian and the escape!! 
> 
> please don't hesitate to comment; i'd love to know your thoughts :')
> 
> also, subscribe to this [**series**](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719994) so you don't miss more ficlets when i post them! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mentions of past homelessness and underage prostitution, discussion of past forced abortions, implication of past encounters with pedophiles (though nothing happened), mention of malnutrition and food deprivation, mention of rape and resulting injuries

Eventually, Jaskier gets a fucking grip on himself and stops crying. He lets go of the witcher and wipes his eyes and tries to smile.

"Whew!" he says, as the witcher stares at him. "Sorry about that. Just— overcome with emotion for a moment." He wipes again at the tears on his cheeks and inhales deeply, then goes on: "I'm afraid, dear witcher, that it's not _quite_ so simple as you swooping in and rescuing me. But it's still... It's just nice to hear a kind word sometimes, I suppose. Hence the crying." He makes another attempt at a smile.

"What do you mean, it's not so simple?" asks the witcher, frowning deeply.

"I mean... Well, there are complicating factors," says Jaskier with a shrug. "I'm fairly certain that you wouldn't want me as a traveling companion if I told you the whole situation, so—"

The witcher cuts him off, his voice sharp: "Tell me," he says.

Jaskier flinches, expecting a slap, but none comes. He opens his eyes.

"Tell me," says the witcher again, more quietly.

And Jaskier bites his lip. Should he tell him? Should he tell him about Rian? Jaskier has never, _ever_ told a customer about Rian— though Szymon had, sometimes, and those customers had wanted terrible, horrific things, things Jaskier had had to fight tooth and nail to keep them from getting.

But the witcher seems... different, than those men. Jaskier is pretty sure he doesn't have a penchant for four-year-olds, at least. And he hasn't hurt Jaskier yet, not even a little. And fuck, he'd offered to _help_ , to take Jaskier away and bring him somewhere safe, and if Jaskier wants to go with him, which he does, there's really no way to keep him from finding out about Rian eventually, so—

"Right, uh... okay," Jaskier says finally, fidgeting with his fingers at his side. "Okay." He inhales deeply, glances at the witcher— and tells him. "I have a son, alright?" he says. "His name is Rian, he's four years old, and I'm not leaving without him."

For a long while, the witcher just looks at him blankly. Jaskier stares back, growing more and more certain with each passing moment that the man is going to rescind his promise to help.

But when the witcher finally speaks, his voice is soft. "Where is he?"

"You won't hurt him, will you?" Jaskier asks, frowning.

"No," says the witcher immediately. "I swear it. He's safe with me."

For some reason, Jaskier believes him. "Right," he says. "Right, uh. He's under the bed, actually. This bed. Sleeping. Well, not quite _sleeping_ — it's, um. See, I give him a sip of sleeping potion at night, so he won't hear me getting fucked. I know it's not ideal, but—"

"I want to see him," says the witcher, bringing a halt to Jaskier's frantic rambling.

Jaskier presses his lips together, considers for a moment, then nods. He gets up, kneels down on the floor beside the bed, and for a moment just stares at his precious little son, wrapped in a ragged blanket, fast asleep in the shadows. Then he reaches out, pulls him into the light, and takes him in his arms.

Gently, he lays him down on the bed beside the witcher and strokes at his curls.

"Uh, so this is him," he says.

"Hmm," hums the witcher.

Jaskier avoids his eye, just gazes down at Rian. He looks pathetic, to be honest. The blanket has fallen open to reveal his tiny body, and although his stupid oversized shirt covers his protruding ribs and hips, it's still easy to tell that he's malnourished, that his face is too thin and his limbs are like sticks.

"He needs a bath," says the witcher flatly. "And a decent meal."

Fuck. Jaskier feels tears pricking at his eyes. He wants to explain himself, wants to explain that he does his best to keep Rian clean but it's just so fucking filthy under the bed, to explain that Szymon routinely withholds food from them and Jaskier always gives Rian the bigger portion but sometimes Szymon feeds Jaskier late at night so he can't share, but all that comes out is a choked, "I— I know. I know I'm a terrible father; he deserves better—"

"No, Jaskier," grunts the witcher. "I didn't mean... Fuck." He exhales shortly. "I only meant that once we leave here, we'll make sure we give him a bath and some food. That's all."

Jaskier's mouth falls open as he glances up at the witcher.

"What's... wrong?" asks the man.

Jaskier's heart is racing. "Did you mean that?"

"Mean what?"

"That— that you'll still take me? Even with him? You don't mind?"

"I see no reason to mind."

And suddenly Jaskier starts crying again. "Shit," he says. He wipes at his eyes as quickly as he can and tries to stay calm. "Thank you," he breathes. "Shit. He'll be good, I promise. He's a good kid. Really good."

"I'm sure he is," says the witcher.

Jaskier smiles weakly, and gazes at him, unsure what else to say to the man who's going to save them, to take them away from here. 

Jaskier tries not to get ahead of himself, but he imagines the witcher helping him get a job in a stable. He and Rian wouldn't need much, just food and somewhere to sleep, perhaps a rug by the hearth or something. And Rian could play outside, and Jaskier wouldn't have to get raped every night...

"Put on your clothes," says the witcher, startling Jaskier from his reverie. "Get some sleep. We'll leave here at dawn."

So Jaskier does as he's told. He hastily puts on his shirt and breeches and gets into bed, draws Rian close and pulls up the ratty sheets.

He can hear the witcher sit down on the floor near the bed.

For a while, both of them are quiet.

And then something inside of Jaskier compels him to start baring his fucking soul to the man.

"I was living on the streets before Szymon took me in," he says quietly. "I tried to make money playing songs for crowds, but that never earned me much, so I, uh. I let people fuck me. For coin." He waits to see if the witcher will call him a filthy whore or something, but the man just hums.

So Jaskier goes on. "I got pregnant," he says. "Obviously, it was only a matter of time, with how I was living. And I wanted to— to buy a potion, to get an abortion, but I couldn't afford one," he admits. It pains him to think of that now, but he'd been thirteen years old and terrified; he can't blame himself for wanting a way out. "So I just kept going," he continues after a moment, "and the baby kept growing, and— and then winter came, and I— I couldn't do it anymore. It was just so _cold_ , you know? And I was so hungry. And no one wanted to fuck me anymore, not with how pregnant I was. So I went from inn to inn, seeing if anyone would let me stay. Szymon was the only one who said yes." Jaskier swallows, takes a deep breath. "I gave birth a week later. Szymon said I could keep him as long as he didn't cause trouble or distract me from my work. So I did."

"You were young," is all the witcher says.

"Fourteen," Jaskier whispers. Thirteen when he'd gotten pregnant, and fourteen when he'd given birth.

There's a long silence.

"Witcher?" Jaskier says at last, rolling over in bed.

The witcher is seated cross-legged on the floor, looking up at him expectantly. "Yes?"

"I'm pregnant again," Jaskier tells him, though he's not sure why. "Right now."

The witcher nods. "I know," he says.

"You do?"

"I can smell it."

"Oh." Right. Of course. Enhanced witcher senses. "I don't want to abort it," Jaskier murmurs then, though he knows, all too well, that it'll be difficult to find someone willing to hire a pregnant omega.

"Why would you need to?" asks the witcher.

"Well— Szymon always makes me," Jaskier says, frowning. "I get pregnant every heat, and as soon as he can tell, he gives me a potion, and..."

"Szymon can go fuck himself," the witcher growls, sounding furious.

Jaskier's breath catches in his throat. "Yeah," he sighs, as lightly as he can manage. "Can't argue with you there." He yawns then, and it suddenly hits him how fucking tired he is. "I guess— I guess I'll sleep now," he says. "It's been fucking ages since I got a good night's rest. Should be nice." 

"Hmm," the witcher says approvingly.

There's a tiny voice in Jaskier's head that tells him to stay awake, to stay vigilant, because this man is a stranger, and who knows what he'll do when Jaskier lets his guard down— but Jaskier ignores it. 

"Goodnight, Witcher," he says, unable to stifle another yawn. 

"Geralt," says the witcher. His name.

Jaskier smiles. "Goodnight, Geralt," he amends. Then he rolls back over and slings an arm over Rian's chest.

And his ass hurts, and the mattress is lumpy, and his mind is reeling with mingled fear and hope. 

But eventually, he manages to fall asleep.

***

Jaskier wakes up to the feeling of a hand on his arm. He sits up in a panic, his breathing shallow, his heart pounding, and jerks away from the hand. Then he hazards a glance at whoever was touching him—

And finds the witcher, Geralt, staring down at him in concern. "It's me," he says. "You were dreaming."

"Fuck," mutters Jaskier. "Sorry. Thanks."

Geralt grunts, and neither of them speak for a moment.

Then Jaskier clears his throat. "Szymon goes to sleep a few hours before sunrise. He has a room, off the main hallway. The one downstairs," he offers.

"Mm."

"Are you going to kill him?" Jaskier asks, with a brief look in Geralt's direction.

"Yes," Geralt says firmly.

"Good." Jaskier hesitates, and strokes Rian's soft little cheek. "I wish you could kill all of them," he says finally.

"Hmm," says Geralt, like perhaps he agrees. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you when it's finished."

Jaskier nods and does as he's told, lies down in bed beside Rian. 

And before long, he drifts back off to sleep.

***

When eventually he's jerked awake by a touch to his shoulder, it's starting to get light outside. Jaskier whips his head around, gasping for breath, but it's just Geralt, towering beside the bed.

"Hello," he says gruffly. "I brought you these, to keep you warm on the road." In his hands are a cloak and a pair of boots— _Szymon's_ cloak and boots.

At first, Jaskier can't speak. But at last: "He's dead?" he manages to croak.

"He is," Geralt says. "And he was a fucking bastard till the end. Now let's go."

So Jaskier gets out of bed, and, with trembling hands, dons the boots and cloak. Then he picks up Rian, holds him close.

 _Szymon is dead_ , he thinks, again and again, as Geralt leads him out of his room and down the stairs, into the empty dining room. He's dead. He can't hurt them anymore. 

He kisses Rian's lolling little head and picks up his pace behind Geralt, until they reach the door of the inn and Geralt pushes it open.

Jaskier steps outside, still clutching Rian to his chest, and blinks in the crisp morning air.

Behind him, the door closes with a thud. Geralt steps forward. "Come on," he says, with what might be a smile.

But for a moment, Jaksier just stands there and breathes in relief. Because the pale dawn light is a buttery pink on the distant mountains, and the wind is cool on his face, and Jaskier is _free_.

He's finally, finally fucking free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!
> 
> thanks for reading! fun fact, back when i first started writing the main fic, this was where i was gonna end it, before i got carried away lolol. anyway, i hope you enjoyed! let me know your thoughts in a comment; it would absolutely make my day! <3
> 
> also, **[i updated the main fic yesterday if you haven't seen that](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097559/chapters/59144728)**!

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [ceteiq](https://ceteiq.tumblr.com/)  
> twitter: [ceteiq](https://twitter.com/ceteiq)  
> come say hi! :)


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